


In the Desert, Stronger Flowers Grow

by BeautifullyLovely



Category: Naruto
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Asexual Character, Family, Gen, Other, Romantic Friendship, Unresolved Emotional Tension, sand siblings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyLovely/pseuds/BeautifullyLovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaara loves. </p><p>Or: Gaara, after Naruto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Desert, Stronger Flowers Grow

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Borderline self-harm in one scene.

It rains the day of the funeral. Big, fat drops that soak the clothes, the skin.

Hinata sits closest to the body, her form wrapped in mourning black. Her two children sit by her side. To a well-trained shinobi eye, her back is set rigidly, held in place by the tightness of her muscle.

Gaara peers over the head of Sakura, who clings to Sasuke’s grip. Naruto’s body is cloaked in traditional wear. It hangs oddly upon his shoulders. Gaara, who has seen the rumpled mess Naruto could make out of his Kage robes in fits of jubilant arm waving or lack of consideration,--”Gaara, when did you turn into one of those stuffy Kages, huh? I have more important things to worry about!”--gazes at the perfectly turned dress with a critical eye.

They press flowers onto his casket. Up close, his face is full of joyous wrinkles, laugh lines and crow’s feet that indicate a life well-lived. His whiskers, left over from the nine-tailed fox, liven his cheeks, as if he were flushing with blood despite his death.

One of Hinata’s children cries. The other looks up at his mother, confused.

“Thank you for coming, Gaara.” She stares at him, her eyes liquid, and he cannot think of what to say. He nods. “Temari, Kankuro.” She acknowledges his siblings with a wavering smile.

Temari steps forward. “Of course.”

Kankuro flanks his other side. “Yeah, we wouldn’t miss it.”

Gaara, with their presence a comfort at his sides, says, “We are honored to be here. Naruto has been a great help to many people, including myself.”

Hinata reaches out a hand, and Gaara, who years prior would have left it hanging in air, carefully cups her palm to his. He smiles, a barely there wisp, in response to her own bravely upturned lips.

Next are Sakura and Sasuke. A child leans around Sakura’s robes, looking in awe of the trio before her. She doesn’t know how she knows, but it’s clear that those before her are shinobi, ones with power. Sasuke, standing next to Sakura, appears unimpressed.

“Gaara of the desert.” He nods. He does not take his eyes off of Gaara.

Kankuro bristles at the lack of greeting, before smoothing out his spine, too aware of the the lingering sorrow of the place to be properly spiteful. Temari only shifts to Sakura in response to Sasuke’s lack of acknowledgment.

“It’s good that you could make it.” Sakura says. Her stance is different. Where there was fear and insecurity there is now a world-weary shine and a rock solid sense of self.

Gaara finds himself connected to her despite only being acquaintances, their protectiveness and worry in sight of Naruto’s theatrics having bound them together. “We would not miss it.” Sakura nods, her belief in his statement clear.

 

Gaara and his siblings commune together after the service. The room they were placed in is ornate, almost decadent, but Gaara, who has never had an eye for such things, notices little, except for escape routes and objects that can be fashioned into weapons.

“Tea?” Temari asks, her voice quiet, yet hard. Gaara holds out a cup for her to pour drink into. Across the room, Kankuro leans against the wall, arms folded. By the look in his eyes, Gaara assumes that he wants to ask her what the performance is for--the last time Kankuro had told her to pour him tea, she had pelted him with a gust of wind and a “Do it yourself, lazy ass.”

Kankuro huffs, but keeps silent. He wanders over to them, sitting cross-legged next to Gaara. “I didn’t know you liked tea like this, little brother.”

“It is alright.” Gaara says, staring into the pool of tea. Its surface is crystalline. He doesn’t touch the cup to move it, not wanting to create waves, shatter the illusion.

The room is located close to the Hokage building, built for visiting dignitaries and their companions, and Gaara has seen many of Naruto’s former friends pass by with a silent nod in their direction. It tires him, to see so many familiar faces. Any tension he receives from these constant revelations is looked at from multiple angles in his mind, then carefully set aside to be dealt with later. He does not bother to cover up any feelings of ill will, merely recognizes their purposelessness and allows them to slowly wither.

Kankuro pours himself a cup a tea, taking the burden of the teapot from Temari. Gaara looks away from his cup. He has been remiss to think that his siblings have not been affected by the funeral as much as he. Gaara had blotted out their feelings for many years, and it is a struggle like one he has never known to relearn the act of compassion, but unlike others he is on constant surveillance.

“I want to thank you, for being at my side.”

Kankuro reaches out, places a hand on his shoulder. “Of course we’re at your side.” He says it like it’s nothing, a given, and Gaara’s soul is fulfilled.

He turns again to Temari. “I know Shikamaru is here in Konoha, if you would like to see him--” Gaara starts.

Temari jumps to standing, and the cups around them tremble, little whirlpools. “Don’t,” She says, her voice sandpaper. “Don’t--Not everything is about that idiot.” It sounds cruel, in the way that Temari is and can be, and yet-- “I mean,” She sighs, emotion falling away like a leaf from a tree. “That I’ll see him tomorrow.”

 _That now is time for family._ She doesn’t say, yet Gaara hears it all the same.

They sit and drink, until their cups go from full to empty, until the teapot no longer is filled with tea. Conversation starts and stops, but the lulls are not particularly uncomfortable. They know each other too well for discomfort now.

“He really was a complete blockhead, sometimes.” Kankuro says.

Temari wuffs, a hot breath, no longer able to maintain pleasantries. “Remember that time he came to Suna thinking the desert is always hot?”

“He nearly froze his ass off the first night.” Kankuro chuckles.

Around others, this kind of talk of the dead would be in bad taste. To have it on the same day as the funeral? Sacrilegious. Yet Gaara does not mind. For a long time, he had thought of himself as particular, even after Suna’s failed invasion of the Leaf Village, Naruto’s words ringing throughout his body. It was a while until he learned that others are particular in their own ways. His siblings, for instance, are loud and brash in ways many villagers, and even other shinobi, find unsettling. Gaara just finds it honest.

They clean for bed, Gaara putting away cups and the teapot, Kankuro and Temari smoothing over the bedding. It has been a long time since they have all slept close together, not since they were young. In the darkness with their heartbeats loud in the open air, Gaara can almost believe they are genin, new to the world, out on an overnight mission in a foreign land.

Tonight, he will keep watch.

 

Gaara lowers himself silently to the rooftop of their quarters, the whole of Konoha spread out like a map at his feet. He lets the night air seep into his skin, so different from the winds of Suna. It is strange to someone accustomed to the desert, but, Gaara suspects, not a bad place to be.

He lets his mind drift, as it often did when he was younger and awake while others dreamed. He imagines Naruto as a child, growing up in this place. Gaara knows there was pain and suffering, a jinchuriki cannot escape it, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it as he might have once, instead following Naruto into ramen shops and leaving with a belly sick with food, smarting off to Iruka until he flushed a tomato paste color, hanging the first piece of furniture in a small apartment and feeling pride in his accomplishment.

It is easy for the image of Naruto to unfold before him, his cheekbones sharpening, his height increasing, his stance becoming more confident, his manic energy cooling, his smile turning more real. It is painful that the image stops in the middle, not knowing where to go.

It did not even have a chance to add wrinkles.

Kohona is kind at night. Little buildings clump together, as if seeking comfort. The stars in the sky dance a waltz together, dipping behind the moon. Most of the windows are dark, and Gaara assumes that the village, almost as one, has decided to put aside their sorrows and worries for a night of peace.

He waits up that night, peering through the quiet. Waits until the light rises with the shinobi of the Leaf, as if Konoha was his village, the debt he held for a single man extending to a whole population in his absence.

 

The first night after Konoha, after the Chunin exams, after Naruto, Gaara locks himself in his room, away from his siblings, away from his village and its people. Kankuro and Temari, still wary of him, let him be. Gaara sits on the floor, his legs crossed. He has no need for a bed; he does not sleep.

It is the second night that it starts.

“Talk to me.” Shukaku whispers, and Gaara does not respond. The wind blows in from the window, the moon a glowing red beacon. The curtains rattle.

“Talk to me.” Shukaku growls. It’s claws scrape across Gaara’s eardrums; its feet stomp over his lungs; it’s voice rips into his heart. Nothing is safe. Gaara is used to this, and this time lets it be. Behind the harshness of the tanuki's presence now lurks a stronger power, one with blonde hair and an orange vest. Gaara sits, focused on that steady thrum amid the inconsistent thumps of the one-tailed beast.

Shukaku roars.

 

When the pain becomes too much, and tension spreads throughout his body, Gaara heads for the edges of the village, into the sand dunes. It is not a forest, but it will do.

Among the sand dunes is where he grapples with control, holding on with tired, grimy fingers. Shukaku skulks. There is a day when one must upset the other, boy or demon, from their perch.

On this day, Shukaku says, “Come visit me, child.” Gaara’s skull throbs. “You think you’re so strong now, but let’s name the victor like real men, face-to-face.”

Most, at this point, would be shaking to their bones, the tanuki's face a dower nightmare in their memory. Gaara merely tilts his head, questioning.

Shukaku scans his thoughts, growls. “My gender doesn’t matter! Just get down here.”

Gaara’s vision goes dark. He sighs.

Opening his eyes, he is greeted to the streets of Suna at night, the wind lightly pulling up sand, scattering it around in circular gusts. Gaara’s toes drag against the ground; his hands clench around metal chain. He swings slowly back and forth.

“Well?” Shukaku says. It’s voice is closer now, it’s breath gusting hot over Gaara’s face. “I don’t have all day, you know.” Gaara bares his teeth. He hates this part.

Leaning on the seat, he begins to pump his legs back and forth, gaining momentum. Soon, he is tall in the sky. He swings just high enough to almost reach the closest star, and then he lets go.

The fall is the worst part, those few moments where his body hangs in the air but his mind has already moved on, that second before he hits what looks like solid ground before it shimmers around him, lets him pass.

Gaara folds into the sand and is submerged in water, water as far as he can see. He kicks off what was formerly the ground, and moves further into the depths of his mind, closer to the center, where Shukaku lives.

After what seems like hours, fading in and out of consciousness, he draws up on the shore of a beach at midnight, empty except for himself. The muscles in his stomach unsnag, breath filling his lungs. His ears pop. A cave on the horizon whispers. “Come child, come.”

Gaara goes.

Shukaku is the same as ever, Gaara doesn’t know why he expected different. Spidery swirls against the skin. A carved in mouth. Yellow eyes. The demon smirks, its lids folding up into little crescents. “So you’ve finally arrived.” Sand shutters past, constantly moving. Gaara grunts, watching the individual grains slip past, molding themselves into Shukaku’s skin. A protection taken from him.

Shukaku shifts, it’s spine arching. “So you think you can defeat me? You? The punny little pipsqueak from Suna?” Shukaku raises a hand as if to swat him from the mouth of the cave, and a gust of wind so strong pours out at him that Gaara’s clothing rips. “You’re stuck with me boy, and as long as I’m stuck with you you’re lucky if I let you even close one eye.”

Gaara swallows, a hand reaching up to hold the side of his head where Shukaku’s presence throbs. The ground underneath them shakes. Cracks appear, splintering down the sides of the cave.

“I’m tired.” Gaara says, his voice a growl.

Shukaku freezes, confused. Of course it’s confused, Gaara thinks, the demon is either playing drunk or feasting for flesh. “What?” It asks. It’s loud, obnoxious in its extravagance.

“I said,” Gaara starts, his stance shifting, readying himself. “That I’m tired.” Shukaku begins to laugh, a throaty, hoarse sound. He pushes forward. “I’m tired of your threats, your anger. Your pride. Pride is nothing when it’s used for what you use it for.” Gaara closes his eyes to Shukaku, imagines Naruto in its place. “You can rage and claw and fight, but as long as I’m here I’ll be watching you,” Naruto’s vision remains in his mind, bright and pure, even as his eyes slit back open. “And I’ll never blink.”

Shukaku’s laugh follows him out of the cave, back into the ocean, through the sand dunes. It presses against his head on the walk toward the village, into the house he and his siblings share. Gaara cannot stop it, there is no point in trying.

He heads to the gathering room for a night of sleeplessness, the first of many until the day of his death. Kankuro is there, which Gaara did not expect, cleaning his puppets, dirty after practice with the other Suna puppeteers. He jumps, a tick of the body, when he sees Gaara in the doorway.

Gaara settles down on the floor, his hands on his knees. He locates the shifting sand within him, tries to still it with his mind.

“Uh...Gaara?” Kankuro questions, wincing. Gaara turns his head in Kankuro's direction, who looks away before returning his gaze. “What’s up?”

Gaara stretches his toes. “Can’t sleep.”

Kankuro watches him out of the corner of his eye for a moment, the purple markings on his face working to conceal his glance, before turning back to his puppets. For the rest of the night, they sit, silent.

Gaara only considers asking him why he was awake, sleepless as he, when the night has already turned into morning, the lack of darkness making it too difficult to divulge secrets.

Kankuro looks up at him during breakfast, his eyes wary but proud. Gaara meets him, expression as open as he can make it, and it feels like they’ve managed to share something private anyway.

 

They hold the funeral at sundown, and the entire village goes to honor the fourth Kazekage’s life. Temari and Kankuro change into civilian clothes. Temari’s hair falls soft to her shoulders, released from the militant knots she keeps them in for battle. Kankuro washes his facial paint off his skin, his face clear and unremarkable sans what looks like bruising at the corners of his eyes where some of the paint lingers. Gaara is surprised at how vulnerable they look, more so than usual. With one flick of a hand he could have them killed.

Temari nods to Kankuro, and they leave the house. Gaara stays. Shukaku lingers. “How about that, huh?” It starts. “A whole village mourning some asshole stupid enough to give his trust to Orochimaru.” It stalks around Gaara’s mind, flicking its tail at the edges of his conscious.

The rasp of its paws is unmistakably grating. Shut up, Gaara thinks. Shut up, over and over again. The size of the demon is too large. Gaara’s head pounds. He grips it, eager to hurt, to cause pain, but the sand stops him, pulling his fingers from his skull, folding them into a useless curve. The energy in his body must go somewhere, if not at himself, then someone else.

 _Yes_ , the sand seems to whisper, the grains scraping across the floor. Gaara presses his lips together, digs a tooth into the fleshy inner part of his cheek. If not himself, if not someone else, then something else. Gaara takes the sand at his disposal, fashions it into an eye. He peers into the village, past the empty houses and into its heart, the center of the town. Temari and Kankuro stand, shoulders pressed together. The other villagers group in clusters, wary of the two Sand Shinobi, daughter and son of their Kazekage, fearful of their association with the demon child.

On this day, as the village meets to honor the merits of their great Kazekage and the sacrifices made in the name of their village, most would rather forget the presence of a single red-haired boy, though he lingers over them despite that want.

Gaara switches out eyes, tries to get a better glimpse. The people look sad. Some even teary. Their shoulders slump. Their gazes drop. All, except for Temari and Kankuro, who stand tall and proud, twins cut out of diamond that not even the most dedicated shinobi could deface. It is as if his father has a lifeline to every citizen in the village, excluding those within his immediate bloodline who claw and scrape and bite for even a shred of true recognition.

His father would never be a man Naruto Uzumaki would admire, and so he is someone Gaara does not bother with. It is only years in the future, after Gaara puts on the Kazekage hat, steps into the position of leader himself, that his father will begin to become someone who, if not worthy of his love, is at least worthy of his understanding.

 

Deirdra is a menace, a deadly trickster who takes joy in his temporary art even at a permanent loss of life, and Gaara will not regret terminating him in a ruthless manner.

It is grueling fight, and Deirdra is an impressive opponent. Shukaku’s mind sings for blood, and Gaara taps down on its voice while bringing forth its limbs, its body, determined to bring home Deirdra’s head on a pike, not for the beast but for Suna. A different kind of bloodlust.

In the end, it comes down to this: Gaara or the village. It is not even a choice.

One second he is alive, the next he is dead.

 

Death is what Gaara would have expected, if he had expected anything at all. Isolation. Discomfort. No pain, but no joy. It is rather like it was after Yashamaru, before Naruto. Quietness, though. That is strange. Never before has he had complete silence, not even locked alone in his room, devoid of any human but himself. Shukaku was always there, brimming with said or unsaid threats. The silence wraps itself around Gaara. A comforting blanket? A smothering layer? His ears reach for a sound that won’t come.

Eventually, he drifts. He drifts all the way back to childhood. Gaara wonders if he is meant to watch his whole life weave out, a play that he cannot stop. The pain of childhood is still fresh, a constant reminder that branded him from birth until death, but it is nothing to what he knows comes next. Pain onto him is now manageable and dealt with. His pain onto others is something he continues to come to grips with.

It is when he is crying and alone that Naruto finds him. It is not his father or Yashamaru, Temari or Kankuro, Matsuri or Baki. It is Naruto, and Gaara is not even surprised. His smile is bright and sunny, even after all the years apart, his eyes a deeper, kinder blue. Gaara, after days of floating (weeks, months, years?), feels he is finally home.

“Gaara,” Naruto says. That is all he says, but it is more than enough. More than anything. The hand on his shoulder is a warm, vibrant shade of heat. Gaara opens his mouth, tries to find words. Then, a shuffle. A muffled shout. He turns.

There, waiting for him, are Leaf village ninja, his siblings, Matsuri and the other genin of Suna. This, this is a shock. There’s a second of confusion, disorientation, and a moment, so small and so raw that it could easily be mistaken for something else, of deep elation.

Then, he sees her, and it all fades.

It’s a struggle to get up, his body taking precedence over his mind. Each ache and pain magnified, like he came back but he did not come back whole. There’s an emptiness in the back of his head, but he lets it fade, focuses on the steady hand Naruto offers.

He doesn’t know what to say, and then he does. “Everyone pray for Elder Chino.” They pray.

There are no words right or true, no phrases that are not flippant or poor considering the circumstance. In the end, all Gaara can do is send feeling. Gratitude so strong, that he was given more time with these people, that he has them for some time yet.

He sends up his soul, sends up his thanks.

 

Matsuri sticks close to his side after that, as if he might fall over at any moment. She constantly apologies for it. Some would find it annoying, frustrating, but Gaara has lived with Shukaku in his head for years, and he has been lonely for just as long. His threshold for annoyance is strong, and his ability to be kind in the face of true care is not limited by petty frustrations.

“Gaara-sensei,” She catches his attention one afternoon. “I’m glad you’re OK.” Her voice is soft and wavering, much too clumsy for a potential jonin. Gaara finds himself almost glad. Matsuri is a person who would never wish harm on anyone, and the idea of people wishing harm on her is saddening. A teaching position, or perhaps a job helping returning shinobi in need of care.

 

On the day she makes rank, Gaara takes her out to dinner.

“Gaara-sensei,” She cries, “I can’t believe it, Chunin!” Her cheeks are flush with exhilaration.

Gaara takes a moment to cut into his dish, still thrown off balance in the face of such obvious happiness pointed in his direction. He says, “Matsuri,” because it is important she understand this. “You are a hard-working shinobi. It is not a surprise that you have made rank.”

She beams. “Ah, but I never thought I could do it. It must be because you are such a good teacher, Gaara-sensei.”

He is in a restaurant where people look twice at him not because he was a jinchuuriki, but because he is Kazekage. He is eating a favorite meal in the presence of one of the first people to look at him without fear. He is accepted, and he wants to use that acceptance for good. “A friend once showed me that with persentence, your goals, however unreachable they appear to yourself, have the chance to be met.”

Matsuri sighs, her lashes fluttering. “We should go.” He says. He is not uncomfortable by her actions, but he does not want to encourage them either.

With a look out the window, Matsuri’s eyes grow wide. “Oh my, I’ll be late.” She moves to get up, then abruptly sits back down. The display is both sweet and humorous, and Gaara feels his chest lighten with the fact that he has met someone so easy in his presence.

“I will take care of the food.” Matsuri badgers with him for a few minutes, until he convinces her that she need not pay. She apologizes before she departs. Some shinobi would curse her tenderness, but Gaara knows better. He is thankful that they came into each other’s lives when they did, him bringing her strength and her bringing him kindness.

Gaara nods to the owner on his way out, and the owner smiles.

 

He gets back to the family home when the moon starts cresting the sand dunes, Kankuro resting at the kitchen table.

“Little brother,” He starts, the paint smearing his face making his smirk appear much larger that it actually is. “Did you go off with that Matsuri girl again?”

“In celebration of her becoming chunin. We had dinner.” Gaara props his gourd by the front entrance. His shoulders relax for the first time that day, a village sliding off his back.

“Is that all that happened?” His eyebrows seem to move of their own accord. Gaara has no use for innuendos, but that does not mean he doesn’t notice them when confronted.

“It would be inappropriate if something did, I have trained her to become shinobi.” He sits next to Kankuro at the table, his hands cupped in his lap. Kankuro’s arm hangs from the back of his chair, fingers splayed wide and legs kicked back. It would be easy to misjudge him if it weren’t for the steel in his eye, carefully hidden behind black head wear and purple markings.

“She likes you, though. Anyone with eyes could see that, and it’s not like you’re poorly matched in ages.”

Gaara waits.

“Tech,” Kankuro spits languidly. “Seems you’re just as bad as me when it comes to women.” Gaara finds the statement to be incorrect. He has seen Kankuro with different women at festivals, and it has become an unspoken action that he and Temari will not visit Kankuro’s room if he has been on a long mission the day before and has been spotted with a woman the day after. He does not seem to have a problem attracting women, but a problem with having them stay. Gaara assumes this will pass soon, and that he will find someone as Temari has. “And Temari with that lazy asshole.” Kankuro kicks a chair. “Neither one of them will admit they like each other.” He huffs out a breath. “It’ll probably be worse when they do get together. Can you imagine?”

Gaara cannot.

“Ah well, guess we’re all a bit fucked up then.”

Gaara thinks about before, the cold, dank days when all he had for company was himself and Shukaku whispering in his ear. He has lost Shukaku and that person he used to be, and in their place he has gained a brother, a sister. He has gained a community and a village. He has gained Naruto as a friend.

“I think,” He says, looking toward Kankuro, noting the laugh lines that were not always there. “That we have done alright.”

They sit in silence and drink tea. The silence is not lonely.

 

One day, Matsuri asks him, “Are you seeing anyone, Gaara-sensei?”

Gaara pauses in helping Matsuri clean her weapons, dirty after a successful mission up north.

“I--I, um, only meant to ask if you had a girlfriend, Gaara-sensei, but it is not my business, I shouldn’t have--”

“It is fine.” Gaara says, his hand flexing on cloth. He brushes it against the steel of a blade. “I am not interested in women that way.”

Matsuri squeaks. “Oh! Oh, are you--?” She flounders, her hands wringing her own cloth.

“It is fine.” Gaara repeats, once more focused on the pile before them. He will need to talk to Matsuri about taking a trip with some other shinobi on a rescue mission east of Suna. It will be good for her, learning how to help civilians with her skill.

Six weeks later, Matsuri is spied being given a flower by a metal worker near one of the more popular restaurants. A girl Matsuri’s age tells this to Gaara expecting anger or disappointment, but Gaara is grateful when he learns of the smile tentatively gracing Matsuri’s lips as she plucked petals on her way home.

 

The older jounin think themselves wise. They don’t trust Gaara, and they make this known through little jabs at his person, not his methodology for the Kazekage position.

The most recent meeting lets out, jounin merging into the sand as easily as they came out of it. Baki leans against the railing. Fabric drapes across his closest eye, keeping it from Gaara’s view.

“They want you to get married.” He says, crossing his arms.

Gaara doesn’t respond, figures that is response enough.

Baki huffs, a rigid, but true, smile curving his mouth. “You know they’ll keep asking, Kazekage-sama.”

“Yes.” Gaara replies.

He isn’t sure, but he thinks Baki’s eyelid crinkles up in the corners. “And I thought Kankuro and Temari were the ones I had to watch out for when it came to things like this.”

Again, Gaara is quiet, the wind talking for him.

 

He does not oppose the concept of marriage, the idea of a partner he twines his life with, who twines their life with him in return. Gaara likes quiet, but, as he’s learned, he enjoys people as well. Someone to sit with, to share stories with, to eat with, no, Gaara would not be opposed to that.

It is the rest that he is not sure of.

 

“There are many young women in the village who are suitable Kazekage-sama.” One of the high council tells him. His mouth twists in a sharp parody of kindness. “They do seem to be falling all over you.”

“Hmm,” Gaara says. “And will you be the one to introduce me?” It is a bit hard, a slip of his carefully placed control, but the blatant shock followed by repudiation of the aforementioned statement is something Gaara cannot fault himself for.

The other elders look down, chastised.

 

The first time Kankuro hears that Temari and Shikamaru are planning marriage, he does not believe it. “He and you?” Kankuro appears so shocked at the thought that Temari brings her fan down on his back. Kankuro grumbles about it for the rest of the day, but it is clear that it is more out of pride than any actual pain.

“You are moving to Konoha?” Gaara asks her later over tea.

Temari huffs. “Yeah, that pit.” She throws her cup down with a clank. “Can’t really imagine it. Shikamaru’s too lazy to get his ass over here though, so it had to be me.”

 

Their marriage takes place in Suna, despite Temari questioning Shikamaru’s ability to make it to the wedding on time. Temari follows her heart and her head, something Gaara has admired in her; she knows there would be a mild scandal to have the Kazekage’s sister wed in a different village. Shikamaru sighs, but smartly does not refer to Temari or the wedding as “a drag”.

“I didn’t think this would happen.” Kankuro says, sitting next to Gaara, waiting for the vows to begin. Gaara gives him an inquisitive glance. “I’m not talking about Temari and Shikamaru now. I just meant--” He waves a hand. “This. Marriage. When we were growing up, it was hard to imagine anything except for the next day, the next fight.”

Gaara understands. They are harsh people, those who thrive in the desert have to be. Marriage and companionship were the last things on anyone’s mind when Suna was gradually collapsing due to lack of resources, survival being the ultimate goal.

Gaara knows, better than anyone, that one cannot thrive without sustenance, without love.

“I am glad.” Gaara says, watching Temari. She does not cry, tears have long since dried up within her, but the smile upon her face is genuine, maybe more so than any large emotional display. That someone, who has seen and lived so much, can still care, can still hold those close to her as precious.

After the reception, Temari knocks her shoulder into Kankuro, smirks at Gaara. Shikamaru sighs, but it is a sigh of fondness.

 

Most nights, Gaara does not dream. His eyes close to stars and open to the sun, but on this particular night, he does dream. Gaara dreams of childhood.

He is young, and knows this because he has to look up to see Yashamaru, who smiles at him. His eyes are kind. “Come Gaara,” He says, “Your mother is at the door.” His hand is warm and bright in Gaara’s palm.

The door opens. “My son,” He is being smothered in a blouse. “I’ve missed you so much.” Her voice is choked. “I love you.” And she does.

Temari and Kankuro are behind her. It is strange to him that he barely recognizes them as children, having lived with Yashamaru while they lived with father. They are fighting playfully amongst themselves, little nudges and pokes, but they stop as as soon as they see him. They shout his name, piling on top of him and messing with his hair. The sand doesn’t stop them.

“Hey,” A voice calls from the doorway. “What about me?” Gaara’s eyes widen.

The blonde runs to him, and Gaara laughs, because he still knows how, and they topple onto the floor amid warnings from mother and uncle about roughhousing. Naruto pulls back, his smile morphing into a frown. “Hey, did I hurt you?” He reaches out, touches Gaara’s temple and comes away with red fingers. “I’m sorry.” He whispers.

Gaara needs to get that look off his face. “No,” He shouts, but Naruto doesn’t look relived. Gaara reaches out, touches Naruto’s red fingers to his. “I mean,” He amends, “It hurts a little, but it’s a good kind of hurt.”

Yashamaru clucks at them, but his mother sets them up on the couch, a comforting hand against Gaara’s shoulder. “You know what we call these types of injures?” She asks, as Yashamaru cleans the cut. “Love taps,” She taps him on the chest, and he smiles, turning to Naruto.

See? He asks. It’s OK. He keeps it up until Naruto begins to grin and look down, where his eyes widen.

“Hey, Gaara, look at this.” He brings his hand up to Gaara’s, their fingers mirror images, red blooming off the tips like rosebuds. “We’re the same.” He turns his grin on Gaara. He is sharp teeth and blue eyes. He is messy hair and messier clothes. He is a face full of whiskers and fingertips full of flowers. He _is_.

“Yes,” Gaara says, his chest breaking open. “Yes, we are.”

When Gaara wakes, he is young and he is old. He touches his eyes and feels water. He touches his mouth and finds upturned lips.

 

Temari is the first, but she is not the last. Naruto scratches a cheek, reddened with embarrassment and sun. “Yeah, so me and Hinata are tying the knot.”

Gaara is the last of his friends to know. They live in different villages, move in different circles. Somehow, though, their lives always seem to want to intersect.

Gaara doesn’t say anything, “Congratulations” seeming too trite. Instead, he reaches out a hand to place on Naruto’s shoulder. Naruto smiles at him, a blinding flash of teeth. The skin under his jacket is warm, and Gaara wants to keep his hand there.

“Haha, you next, huh?”

“Hmm,” Gaara replies.

Naruto stretches his legs out on the roof, and both of them turn toward the sunset sinking into the hills. Naruto thinks about Hinata, and Gaara thinks of unknowable things.

 

The problem, Gaara thinks, is that Naruto was too much. Too bright. Too strong. Too determined.

Gaara is made up in absolutes. When he picks a path for his life, he follows it. Paths are not always clear, however. Roads can be winding; they can trace through forests and mountains, converge and break apart. That is the difficulty of life, that constant unclarity.

Naruto’s path, though. It was always clear. He had an ability to move through life as if it were a straight line, as if his destiny was already set out before him. Forests? He could cut them down. Mountains? He could move them.

When Gaara looked at him in Iron Country, his gaze solem, and told him Sasuke Uchiha was not worth saving, Naruto had brushed off his concern as if it was no matter. Sasuke would come back; Sasuke _must_ come back. And Sasuke had.

Naruto’s ability to change the tides lasted until the day of his death. Unfortunately, that one day was enough.

 

After the sun begins to peak over Konoha's horizon, Gaara hops down from the roof and makes his way to the grave. It is a clean thing, simple yet somehow grand. It is fitting, Gaara thinks, for Naruto Uzumaki.

The grave is empty except for one woman, her hair a bright pink, cut sharply before her shoulders. “Gaara,” Sakura acknowledges. He nods.

They stand silently together, each lost to their own memories. “He was a good person, you know. One of the best.” Sakura wipes at her cheek, scrubs at the grimace forming on her mouth.

“Yes,” Gaara says. He would not deny it.

Sakura leaves a bouquet of flowers, carefully held together with golden string. “Ino picked them out.” She says. They’re beautiful, a striking red and orange, the vitality strong and pure.

Gaara wraps a thin line of sand around the middle of the stems to hold them in place. When he leaves Konoha, he leaves that handful of sand to Naruto. His gourd holds enough already.

 

In the future, there will be scrolls written about the fifth Kazekage, the great general of the combined shinobi forces, who during his time helped defeat Uchiha Madara, the strongest man on earth, the child leader of Suna who finally restored the village to greatness after years of debt to other lands and a lack of presence in the great shinobi nations. Reels of lyrical poems are created, stories about his life and work that will be read by generations of Suna children.

Some will be appreciative, others will be condemning, as is common for those is politics. None will be neutral.

The focus changes. Poets like to write of his character, his perseverance in the face of overwhelming strife. Historians will talk of his brokering for communication with the other shinobi nations, against his elder’s wishes and years of tradition, ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity.

All will mention Naruto Uzumaki as instrumental in the Kazekage’s rise.


End file.
